


Bloodsport

by hassandra (thrives)



Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, anyways i have no idea what im doing but, cassandra stays alive thank fuck, harry is still an asshole but not a misogynist creep, instead of drama after cassandra's death, maybe even a war of some sort, there is a little allie/harry but only for angst purposes, there's Blackmail! and rivalries and the town being forced to take sides
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-03-06 17:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18855802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrives/pseuds/hassandra
Summary: He still likes the way her name sounds.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> hello this is for jaden
> 
> but also if you're just clicking on it for a good time: i don't condone harry's behavior in the show this is a rewrite of how i THINK the season should have gone and how the characters should have been written

 

"It's Cassandra. It's always been Cassandra."

— Harry Bingham, The Society (2019)

 

 

There are _rules,_ laws of nature, parameters — the things that are unchanging, concrete, cogent.

Example 1: Cassandra and Harry are de facto enemies. This will never change. It should never have to.

Example 2: Theirs is a bloodsport. This can never change. It will never have to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Experiment 1: High schoolers in a new West Ham without a way out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cassandra's plan isn't exactly ideal.

_Robbing the pharmacy_ isn't exactly ideal.

But she's pulling the bobby pin out of her hair anyway, fingers gripping the lock, heart pounding out of her chest. Her mind races, underarms slick with sweat. She can compartmentalize. She can be mathematical about this. Cassandra twists the bobby pin with three fingers, swiping at her bangs as she crouches down and begins to pick the lock. She can't make out the security code on the other side, but she's always been excellent with numbers.

She thinks she may have heard something move behind her, but just jerks the doorknob with more force.

Then —

"I'd never have pegged you for an Adderall junkie, Cassandra."

That deep, arrogant voice — god, she is so thoroughly _,_ colossally _fucked_.

She turns slowly, pain throbbing beneath the raised flesh of her scar. Crossing her hands over her chest, she meets his gaze, the dark eyes and the freshly-fucked hair, the sharp angle of his jaw.

Harry gives her a mocking smile, supremely amused and coldly furious all at once. His emotions have always been written across his face. If he finds a weakness, a chink in her armor, she knows he'll have no qualms about using it against her. 

"What will your precious student body say when they find out you've been hoarding pharmaceuticals?"

"It's not what you think," Cassandra says urgently. "Harry, if you could just listen—"

His laugh is disbelieving. "I've been listening to you my entire goddamn life."

She purses her lips, hoping they haven't turned that telltale shade of blue. Her hands are already trembling as she says, "I'm sorry you feel that way, but I need to... need to..." The dizziness returns, her chest aching as she presses against the metal barrier. She wishes she felt more animosity towards him, but Harry has never been more than a thorn in her side. This infuriates him the most, Cassandra thinks, that she doesn't have the time or energy to care enough to hate him.

_Hate me back,_ he seems to say.  _Hate me until it feels like you'll die from it._

Harry arches a brow. "You look like shit." He turns on his heel as if to leave, and Cassandra  _can't_ let him go to tell Campbell and the others that she is a farce, a drug addict, vulnerable.

"Look," she manages, breathing through the pain. If she doesn't get her hands on the pills soon, she'll collapse. She wouldn't put it past Harry to just leave her dying on the floor. "I'm not suffering from withdrawal. I'm just sick, and I can't afford tobe."

"Oh, so Queen Cassandra gets top priority?" he drawls. "As usual."

"No," Cassandra says quietly. "I need to keep it together. Allie needs me."

"Well, guess what? Allie isn't the only fucking person here. And no one else needs _you_  to monopolize the whole place under the guise of democracy. You only give a shit about yourself."

"I care about getting home, Harry, just like everyone else. I don't understand what I did to make you feel this way—"

"Of course you don't understand. You can do no wrong, right? I'm the irrationalone. Have you ever stopped to think why everyone hates your fucking guts? Why no self-respecting boy would touch you in high school?" 

"You don't know anything about me, Harry," she says, pinching the back of her palm to redirect the pain elsewhere. It shouldn't hurt when he makes such baseless accusations but it still stings; in so many ways she is similar to the girl he loves. She knows Kelly, likes her enough. They are — _were_ — in the same study group for AP Government. But for some inexplicable reason, Harry has loathed her since they were in the second grade and she won the spelling bee. It was supposed to be a bit of friendly competition, something to give them an edge.

It wasn't supposed to be a war.

(She never asked for one.)

"I know everything about you," he says savagely. "I know exactly the way you work."

She shakes her head. "You thinkyou _know_ me just because you tried to bully me all throughout elementary, middle, and high school and I brushed you off? 

"I didn't  _bully_ you," Harry says, incredulous. "That's absolutely—have you been telling people that?"

"All you ever do is contradict me. For no reason _._ For  _fun_."

 "Because someone needs to fucking knock you down a peg!" 

She rubs her temples, strands of hair falling into her eyes. "Harry, I—"

And then the floor opens up and swallows her whole. Cassandra's heart feels like it's going to rupture into a thousand pieces as she lies limply, her head aching with the brunt of the impact. Harry swears under his breath, but he comes and kneels beside her anyway. His hair is even messier than before, curling gently at the nape of his neck. The pale column of his throat, the top buttons of his shirt coming undone. She loathes herself for noticing.

"You're a liar," he says, voice hard. "Your lips are fucking blue. That's classic withdrawal."

It's a split-second decision. Cassandra isn't thinking, not really, not with the pain, not with the thought of leaving Allie all alone here to fend for herself. She can't afford to trust him. She has to.

"Take off my shirt," she instructs.

Harry snorts, running one hand through his hair. "How hard did you hit your head?"

"Just fucking do it," she says, closing her eyes as the pinpricks of pain come shooting up her spine.

His touch is tentative, his fingers fumbling with her buttons and brushing against the skin of her collarbone, but he opens her shirt anyway. His hand lingers against her skin for a moment too long, and she resists the urge to arch into his touch. When he exhales, Cassandra knows he's seen the scar. She grasps his hand and presses it to the angry red flesh. Harry looks dazed, a flicker of concern in his eyes. His fingers are cool against her burning skin.

"I have congenital heart disease," she explains weakly, swallowing. "You... you need to take me home."

"Jesus fuck," Harry mutters. "Do I have to carry you?"

She nods, just barely. "If you want me to live."

He hesitates, but then she feels his arms wrap around her body, the hard warmth of his chest. His lips brush over the shell of her ear and she shivers imperceptibly. But his voice is all wrong.

"This is divine retribution, _Cassandra_. No one is ever going to follow your orders again."

"You can't defeat me, Harry," Cassandra says slowly, curling her hand around the material of his shirt. "We're on the same team."

He sneers. "That will never be true."

"Right now, you're helping me. Doesn't that stand for something?"

"I don't want your fucking death on my hands—"

"That makes you more of a decent person that you pretend to be," she murmurs.

"Fucking  _stop_ ," he spits. Cassandra flinches at the violence in his tone. Sometimes he frightens her in a way she doesn't quite understand. She doesn't think Harry would physically hurt her, but he's always been excellent at sadistic games. "Don't give me your pity talk. I'm going to savor seeing you powerless."

"Let me die, then," she tells him, too worn out to fight.

"I can't," he says, sounding resigned. Her blood runs cold when he adds, _"_ Not yet, at least."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's not nearly as satisfying as Harry had imagined.

Cassandra's weak link. Her Achilles' heel. And it's a _heart condition_ that only serves to make her more noble, more long-suffering and selfless. Brave, strong Cassandra, dealing with everything on her own. The perfect leader. His knuckles are clenched white around the steering wheel. He glances at the backseat, where she's sprawled across his hand-stitched leather seats, as pale as a corpse.

Golden bangs frame her face, the face he's memorized, the face he knows every line and contour of. Her freckles and upturned nose and rosebud mouth. The little furrow she gets between her brows when she's thinking. She's wearing those stupid puritanical clothes, a long blue skirt and a long-sleeved blouse. Helena — who's a walking bible, for Christ's sake — wears tight skirts and crop tops. Hell, even Kelly indulges in a skimpy dress once in a while, but he doesn't think he's ever seen Cassandra dress like anything other than an Amish housewife.

But when she asked him to open her shirt, he could feel the softness of her skin and the swell of her breasts and the black lace of her bra and he — _well_.

She's really fuckinggorgeous. Harry didn't like admitting it. Doesn't like admitting it. He tells himself she's a shrill, pushy hag with no redeeming personality traits, but god, it would be so much easier if she was ugly. It would be so much easier if her eyes weren't so clear and steady and blue. She looks at him like she sees straight to the bone.

Harry swerves to the right as a huge Jeep comes tunneling right towards him. A Jeep that looks suspiciously like Campbell's ride.

"Mother _fucker_ ," he curses, and Cassandra groans from the back. He grinds to a stop just as she sits up, hands held out in front of her as if expecting a blow. He nearly laughs from the sheer strangeness of it, seeing her so helpless. It doesn't suit her. "I'm not going to hit you."

She winces. "Are... we... there?" Every word seems to drain her of strength and she slumps back, one hand clutching her chest. If she dies in his car, he'll have no alibi. Everyone knows he loathes the idea of her existence. And she has that sister with the scary eyes who might actually kill him.

"Almost," Harry reassures her, starting up the car.

When they get to her house (a charming two-story with a wraparound porch, picturesque like her), Cassandra is barely conscious. "Hey," Harry says, shaking her roughly. "Hey. Hey. Cassandra. Where do I get your meds?"

"Bottom drawer of my dresser. Underneath the red dress." She's sweating visibly, her face strained with the effort of not-dying.

"So you don't care if I go through your underwear?"

"Just  _fucking_ go." Her eyes are blazing, and he realizes with a thrum of pleasure that he's gotten under her skin.

"Alright, alright," Harry says, raising his hands in surrender. "Is the door open?"

She just leans her head on the car door and lets out a shuddering breath.

He opens the driver's side door and walks to the front of her house, wondering how the hell he got here.

But the door is unlocked, so he goes for the stairs and starts opening random doors until he finds the tidy room with the freshly made bed and a _poster of Harry Styles?_ Cassandra has a poster with his name on it taped to her bedroom wall. Talk about a mindfuck. For a brief moment, Harry wonders if _he_ ever crosses her mind when she looks at it. Does she even think about him at all?

He strides over to the pale pink dresser and yanks open the bottom drawer. He pulls out every article of clothing in the damn thing, but there's no pill bottle to be found. "Goddammit," he mumbles. "Nice one, Cassandra."

Harry stumbles down the stairs and nearly collides with a girl. A petite girl with long blond curls and a very angry expression on her face. Pretty in a generic sort of way. Definitely related to Cassandra.

" _You,_ " she hisses. "What the hell did you do to my sister?"

"She needed her, uh, you know, um," he gestures at his chest, "medicine. Because she collapsed and I—"

"Shit," the girl (Allie? Allie) says, and then she's sprinting to the dining table, hair flying out behind her. She empties a handbag onto the table and grabs the orange capsule that looks like the prescription shit Harry buys from Campbell sometimes, then demands, "Fill a glass with water."

He obediently grabs a glass from the counter and looks for a water filterer; she snorts. "Look, rich kid, some of us use the tap."

He goes to the sink and fills the cup, and then she grabs it from him and she's out the door. He follows, wondering whether the Pressmans are all this intense. She's already in the car when he catches up, and Cassandra is drinking the water greedily.

"You can't go that long without them," Allie is saying furiously. "You know that."

Cassandra smooths her hands over her hair, still shaking all over. The setting sun casts a golden light around her shoulders, and she looks lovelier than Harry has ever seen her. Her blouse is soaked with sweat and she looks impossibly young, lashes dark against her cheeks. "I was trying to be strong for you."

"I don't need you to do that," Allie says more softly. "I just need my sister. Safe. And alive. Can you manage that, at least?"

Cassandra smiles weakly. "Yes." Then she looks to him and her smile settles into something warier. 

"Harry," she says. "You have your trump card. Question is, are you going to use it?"

Allie looks back and forth between the two of them. "Cassie, he's vile _._ Just because he made one decent decision—"

"Allie," Cassandra says, grasping her sister's hand, "I think I owe him a thank you at least."

And suddenly Harry hates her more than ever before, hates her for being so  _good_ and  _kind_ and  _forgiving,_ hates her for being everything he's not, hates her for reminding him that he'll always fall short. He thinks Allie understands what it means to live in Cassandra's shadow, but there's a difference. Allie has accepted it. He never will.

He gives her a cold smile. "Don't bother. I have everything I need."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cassandra feels like shit.

Every part of her body feels like it's been put through a meat grinder, melted down, and then sewed back together.

Given the insanity of their situation, she forgot completely about her meds. All she'd been focused on was trying not to let everything dissolve into chaos, and now she's unwittingly revealed her biggest weakness to Harry Bingham. A fool who doesn't care about order or democracy or rations. He wants to party and fuck around until he's so drunk he can't see straight, and then he'll let everyone run wild. They'll run out of resources and then, as Cassandra's dying, she'll say, _I told you so._

She stares at the ceiling of her bedroom, lying in the home that doesn't feel like home.

The glow-in-the-dark stars she glued to the ceiling are still there, frayed and peeling off in some parts. These, at least, are intact. She remembers her dad holding her up so she could reach, Allie coming to her bed at night because they were both scared of the dark. Somewhere along the line she forgot how to be afraid. 

Maybe it's living with the knowledge that you could die tomorrow. It changes things.

And for all she thought Harry might be persuaded to keep her secret, she now know how deep his hatred runs. This is the one battle he's not willing to lose.

She thinks of his hands gripping her waist, the look in his eyes that stole her breath away.

Of lines uncrossed. Of a dozen different ways her life might have gone.

Maybe it's time she let him think he's won.

 

 


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> waiting game by banks is the only song u should listen to while reading this... comments & kudos = my day made <3
> 
> (also this chapter is too long so harry's pov of the [redacted] will be in the next chapter)

 

The curtains closing behind her. Harry's hand warm on the small of her back, breath tickling the back of her neck. Their final bow. She'll have yellow roses and he'll have white. The director will hug them both, the heady scent of her perfume clinging to Cassandra's skin long after the show ends.

She's going to remember the way he looked for the rest of her life. His regal cheekbones, the cut of his tux, her cheeks hot as she straightens his tie. How he links their fingers together and whispers,  _don't be afraid._ She could have imagined it. She is a rival, an adversary, and he says it anyway.

And she has to gather herself, searching for the arms of her sister, and he clenches his jaw, rolling his shirtsleeves up to greet his fan club — this is how they play pretend.

 

 

* * *

 

  

Cassandra rises before the first streaks of gold across the horizon, quietly padding to the kitchen to make herself a cup of steaming black coffee before moving to the back porch. The mug warms her hands as she savors the rich, bitter aftertaste. _So there is coffee in hell_ , she thinks wryly.  _Small mercies._ The sky is seceding into soft pink and pale violet, the moon hanging like a pale scar in the last of the blue. It smells crisp and earthy as she inhales, the same early morning air she's loved her whole life. For a moment she can imagine her parents sleeping in the master bedroom, their cat nudging at her leg, Allie crumpled over the sofa. For a moment the world is set on its axis again.

Then she hears a shout in the distance and the sound of a car engine revving, and she remembers. The teens of West Ham may not want her or even particularly like her, but they need a steadying presence, something to remind them not everything has turned on its head. She'll try to be their anchor to the real world. Anarchy isn't inevitable, even if she's lost her faith. 

So she carefully selects a white dress, pulling her denim jacket tight around her shoulders, and sets off for the church. Cassandra doesn't have much faith in God, if there even is one — still, she needs a miracle.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The church is empty when she arrives, eerie in its quiet. The pews stretch out in front of her, seeming endless. The stained glass window sends shards of rainbow-colored light across the strangely pristine floor, beckoning to the sinners and saints. Where does Cassandra stand on that spectrum? She is no saint. She's never claimed to be anything but herself.

She is not Allie, though she often wishes she was braver, angrier. Ruled by impulse rather than logic. Cassandra sees the world through an analytical lens, a calm and clear gaze. Everyone has a tell. There is a method to every equation. Human beings can be disassembled, examined, and reconstructed like any inanimate object. Emotions can be manipulated as easily as the strings of a violin. The slip of a finger and their song can forever be changed.

Cassandra straightens her back and sits up higher as the doors swing open, but it is not Helena who enters. She disguises her shock with a wan smile. Campbell looks unhinged, the ends of his hair damp with sweat. He's wearing combat boots and a black vest, his arms raised to the ceiling. His smile dims when he sees her.

"Cousin Cassandra," he says. "A pleasure to see you, as always."

She doesn't see any point in being polite. "Campbell. I wish I could say the same."

He narrows his eyes, striding over to the pew and sprawling out across from her. "And why's that?"

"I know you, remember? You're here to start trouble."

"Trouble _? Me_?" He sniggers, sliding his boots across the polished wood. "You must be thinking of someone else."

"We need rules," Cassandra says. "You know that as well as I do. Even if you don't care about anyone here, we outnumber you two-hundred to one."

"You're a control freak," Campbell asserts. "If you really think we need rules, why don't you let them tire themselves out before rounding them out?"

She crosses her arms over her chest, frowning at him. "If we run out of resources, we'll all be dead."

Campbell's eyes are gleaming, pupils dilated. He runs his teeth over his bottom lip, considering. (He's already high, but Cassandra can't find it in herself to care.)

Then he says, "Would that really be so bad?"'

Cassandra raises her eyebrows. She knows Campbell is  _off,_ knows he's been strange since they were children. But he isn't a killer. "I would like to stay alive," she says.

"Are you afraid?" he taunts, getting to his feet and walking to the podium. His voice echoes around the church, surrounding her. "Are you afraid of death, Cassandra?"

"Yes," she says honestly. "Aren't you?"

"To be afraid of death is only another form of thinking that one is wise when one is not." He drums his hand on the side of the podium before crouching by the altar, then looks to her. He has that maniacal gleam in his eyes, but she has never been scared of him.

"Easy for Plato to say," she contends. "I somehow doubt death is more fulfilling than life." 

As Cassandra gets to her feet Campbell calls after her, the words ringing in her ears long after she leaves.

"You'll never know until you try, cousin."

 

* * *

 

  

Harry can't even cool off in the fucking pool, considering it's more beer than actual water at the moment.

Who the hell pours their drink out into someone's pool?

Cassandra has it all twisted. He likes rules. The  _old_ rules. What's his stays his, no sharing, no hand-holding. Let the others fend for themselves. He's doing just fine. He's  _free._

And of course, because Harry never gets to have nice things, Cassandra wants to assemble a  _Going Home Committee._ Because everyone wants to go back to a world where everything is shit. How does she not get it? How does she prefer that structured hellhole to freedom? Harry wouldn't have picked this particular group of people to be stuck with, but he can do whatever the hell he wants. They can do whatever they want for the rest of their lives, and she wants to go home.

She's still unfamiliar, like a song he never learned all the words to. Harry  _should_ know her by now. He can see her so clearly in his mind: golden hair falling across a bare shoulder, the curve of her lips and her rosewater scent, that exasperated look in her eyes. In a different life, would they have been close? Would she have memorized him the way he's memorized her? But she wouldn't tease him if he told her he was afraid of the dark. He hates her almost as badly as he wants her.

Sometimes it feels too close. Resentment and desire. Like they're the same thing at their core.

It's a learning curve. She's a learning curve.

And even if he goes and stands up in front of everyone and tells them what he saw, what will change? Does he really have anything to use against her?  _She's unfit to be our leader because she could die._

He knows what she would say.  _We could all die, Harry. I'm not special._

_Yes, you are._ _No, you're not._

Maybe they're all special. Maybe they've all been chosen for a very special kind of torment. Cassandra the martyr. Harry, who is less than nothing.

He tips the last of his father's wine down his throat, relishing the burning sensation. Maybe he should pay her a visit. See how much she'll bend under his thumb.

 _Bad idea,_ Kelly says in the back of his mind.

"Well," Harry murmurs, getting to his feet unsteadily, "I specialize in those."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cassandra isn't expecting him so soon.

Harry steps out of the car, wincing at the stream of sunlight. He's wearing a loose white shirt, his jaw shadowed with day-old stubble. Her mouth goes dry at the sight. She shrugs off her coat and goes to stand in the doorway, her hair loose around her shoulders. He raises a hand in a mocking salute and she returns it with less ire.

"Hello," he shouts, falsely cheery.

"Harry," she says. "What are you doing here?"

He saunters over, hands in his pockets. "Just wanted to see an old friend."

"Did you bring a present at least?" 

He groans. "God, does it always have to be  _something_  with you?"

Cassandra gives him a quizzical look, and he waves his hand. "Can I come inside, Your Highness?"

She steps aside to let him in, her arm tingling where he brushes against it lightly. Harry makes a beeline for her father's armchair, grinning lazily when she opens her mouth to protest. So she clamps her mouth shut and sits stiffly across from him.

"Did you come here to blackmail me?" she asks eventually, fiddling with the straps of her dress.

Harry spreads a graceful, long-fingered hand over the pincushion she had embroidered in the seventh grade. Then he says, "Yes."

"Oh, good," Cassandra says, glad he's abandoned the pretense. "Well, set your terms."

He straightens, looking miffed. "Are you actually going to treat this like a school project?"

"I'm not treatingit like anything—"

"You're doing that fucking  _thing_ where you look anywhere but the person you're talking to—"

"Maybe I just don't want to look at you _,"_ she points out.

Harry grins puckishly. "Well, I'm not bad to look at."

Cassandra stands, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "What exactly do you want from me, Harry?"

He follows her to the kitchen, watching with hooded eyes as she pours herself a glass of orange juice from the fridge. "I want you to give it up," he says.

"Give _what_ up? If it's the student body president thing, you  _really_ need to get over that."

"Give up this whole holier-than-thouact and admit you have no idea what the fuck you're doing, just like the rest of us."

God, he really is the most infuriating prick she's ever had the misfortune to meet. She wants him gone. She wants to fold him away in the corner of her mind and pretend he doesn't exist. She's gotten very good at it over the years.

"I've never claimed to know what I'm doing," she says, "but at least I'm trying to  _do_ something instead of sitting on my ass."

Harry leans against the counter, his eyes dark and intense. He's all sinewy muscle and languid lines, and it should be a crime for someone so insufferable to be so  _hot._  But then the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Maybe you should stop interfering."

"We're alone and trapped," Cassandra says coolly. "I'm just trying to put this together rationally—"

"Well, _stop_. Stop trying to figure everything out on your own and leave everyone else out of the loop. No one is going to follow your fucking regulations anymore. You're not the goddamn hall monitor."

"It's called  _democracy,_ Harry—"

"—Maybe you should check the dictionary, then, because you clearly don't know what that means—"

"We all make the decisions together, Harry," she says. "I'm just the mouthpiece. Someone has to ask for a vote. Someone has to ask the questions. Someone has to enforce the laws. That's how a fucking government works."

"Then shouldn't we have a fucking election?"

Cassandra looks at him, feeling weary of the endless war she never asked for. "Don't you see we're on the same side here?"

She makes her way to the stairs, then turns back to look at him as if helpless. He's slouched by one of her mother's favorite paintings, a oil painting of two golden-haired girls in the Garden of Eden. He strikes her as beautiful, standing there with his messy dark hair and his bedroom eyes. If only she was in this world with the boy from Yale, with her mother and father, her future friends.

And she thinks she might understand why he loathes her so much. Because she was the wrong girl. The wrong competition. The wrong person to be stuck with.

"Don't worry," she says over her shoulder. "I might hate you even more than you hate me."

She can sense him coming up the stairs behind her, and she wants to tell him to go home, but she also wants to know whether he has it in him. Maybe he'll threaten her here or here or  _here,_ on the landing with the hanging light that casts his face in shadow. But he does nothing but watch her like a predator stalking his prey. The lamplight gilds his hair, his eyes shining with something like fury.

Cassandra tilts her chin up to meet his gaze. "You're a fucking coward, Harry. Go home."

"You think you can just dismiss me?" He steps closer, moving in, but she stands her ground. Eyes locking. Bodies tensing. He grabs her arm, pulls her in. Every nerve in her body narrows to the point of contact and she shivers, suddenly aware of the heat of his hand around her wrist. "Do you think I'm going to go home and forget that you're _weak_?"

"I'm not weak," she says, placing her hand on his, meaning to push him away, an electric current dancing up the nerves of her arm. But she can't let go. His fingers curl around her palm and she shivers, her eyes falling to his mouth. "I'm just human."

"Yeah," Harry murmurs. " _Yeah._ "

His eyes are wild and carnal as he lowers his mouth to hers and says, "Just makes you easier to destroy."

She isn't sure what betrays her, her eyes or the slight quaver in her voice, but he gives her one of those searing looks, as if he wants nothing more than to hurt her or kiss her or _both_ , and she falters. “Please,” she breathes, not sure if she's asking him to let go or hold on. “ _Please—_ ”

He doesn't waste a moment, lunging forward like an animal and kissing her roughly, a hard, murderous kiss that destroys every half-formed thought, releasing a bolt of pure yearning that shudders through her bones and settles between her legs. She curls her fingers into his hair, hips sliding on hips, her mouth parting to taste his tongue, thick with wine and desire, kissing him back with such desperation that the taste of his mouth feels forever imprinted on hers. He pulls back for the briefest moment to say hoarsely, "I hate you," and then he's pressing her into the wall, the lean, hard muscle of his chest surrounding her with liquid heat, and Cassandra bites back a moan as he draws his teeth down her neck. His hands rise above her shoulders, pinning her in place. A dark curl falls into his eyes, and he swipes it away impatiently, leaning down to kiss her again and again and  _again._

She knows her cheeks are flushed beyond repair, her lips swollen, and it's  _nothing_ like kissing the Yale boy or James in the ninth grade. It's shameful. It's reckless and terrifying and it's a fucking leap into the abyss, and Harry is kissing her like he wants to take the long way down to hell. It feels like that impossible moment before the coin lands in her palm, as if she's caught in midair.

The thought sends a confusing bolt of longing and impossibility and fear along the nerves of her stomach. She cups his face with both hands, drawing him down for another a kiss, running her fingers across the bridge of his nose, his cupid’s bow, the scar along his neck. He has the lightest of freckles on the tip of his nose, only visible if she's close enough to kiss him.  _She's close enough to kiss him._

This time around they're not on a stage.

And for the longest moment in her life, Cassandra stops thinking, stops rationalizing. All she can feel is Harry, and she tears at his shirt, touching the bruises already forming along her throat as he peels it off, and then he's tugging her dress over her head and she's running her hands down his chest and draping her arms around his neck, kissing him so violently that it steals her breath. He traces her shoulder blades and her breasts reverently before wrapping both hands around her waist and hoisting her up, his belt buckle pressing into her stomach. Cassandra feels delicate in his arms, small, feminine. Her body tightens in response, heat pooling between her legs, and then he's kissing her, touching her, murmuring things he doesn't mean, and she arches her back, positioning herself for him.

She thinks she might die if he lets go. 

 


	3. three

 

Harry isn't  _fucking_  Cassandra — or, worse, _making love_  to her. It's something more visceral, something violent and impure and somehow still tender, a driving force that keeps him locked in equal parts disbelief and adulation; because she frightens him like this, eyes like blue fire, lips burning his skin. She is a vulnerability. Touch her for too long and he might cut himself on her edges. He touches her anyway, half-reverent, half-possessive, slow hands skimming her waist, her hips, hoping his fingermarks will bruise. He waits for her words:  _this was a mistake._

They never come.

Harry finger-fucks her to a climax against the wall of her upstairs landing, reveling in the soft little sounds she makes, and then she's fumbling with his belt, yanking it off, her teeth marks imprinted onto his shoulder. They stumble against the nearest door, her legs wrapped around his waist, her bra halfway down her stomach and he's licking a hot circle around her breasts, her hands pulling at his hair,her little whimper like fire to his blood, and the door yields. This room is messy, the curtains drawn and the walls painted dark green. Definitely not Cassandra's room, but he can't bring it in himself to care. She nudges him towards the desk, and he murmurs, "Condom," and she drags herself away from him long enough to open the drawer of the nightstand.

Cassandra gives him an impish smile, holding up a condom between two fingers, and holy  _fuck_ if she isn't the cutest thing he's ever seen in his life. "All set?" she asks.

"All set," he agrees, peeling off his pants. Cassandra runs a careless hand down her stomach, toying with the ends of her thong, tugging her bra back up (much to Harry's chagrin).  _A thong._ Everything he thought he knew about her is wrong. Never in a million years would he have pegged her for the girl who would fuck him in ("So whose room is this, anyway?" he drawls, and nearly chokes when she pauses to look around and then says, "Oh, Allie's...")  _her sister's_ room, but it turns him on so badly that he can barely see straight.

"You're a creep," she teases. Or maybe she's serious. He can't tell. "Standing there watching me."

He gives her a slow onceover, raking his eyes down her breasts to her long legs until he feels dirty. But she's just watching him carefully, like it's the first time she's ever seen him without a mask. "And you're more of a slut than I thought."

"Harry," Cassandra chides, deliberately reaching down and lightly scraping her nails against his cock, her eyes sparkling as he lets out a shuddering groan. "That's an incredibly outdated and sexist term. Are women not allowed to enjoy casual sex?"

Harry grits his teeth and reaches up to grasp her hair, pulling her in for an angry, possessive kiss. She plays along, letting him overpower her for a moment before biting his lip so hard she draws blood.

" _Fuck,_ " he hisses, tasting the salty tang on the inside of his cheek. "What was that for?"

She hums noncommittally, pressing herself to him, her hand doing dangerous things below the belt. He can feel her nipples tightening against his bare chest, her bra slipping again. "For calling me a slut," she says into his mouth, then guides his hands up to her breasts. He unhooks her bra with the efficiency of someone who's done it a hundred times before, then runs his hands over the smooth skin, the rosy nipples, the delicate flush. The ugly red scar. He feels her flinch when he touches it with one finger, but she lets him, and he feels a little in awe of her, this fragile, impossibly strong girl. He loathes himself for feeling admiration. He loathes himself for wanting her as badly as he's ever wanted anything. Maybe even more than he craves her defeat.

Cassandra gasps a little when he picks her up, but she acclimates quickly, her legs wrapping around him until there's little but see-through cotton separating their bodies. All the blood in his body rushes to his cock. He's so hard that it's painful to stay in this state. He leads her to the desk, where he kneels and parts her thighs, sliding his hands around her ass and yanking the thong down. But before he can put his mouth on her, she's pulling him up, kissing him again.

It's strange because kissing has always been an act of foreplay to him, a means to an end, but with her, well — Harry could kiss her for the rest of his life. It feels like she's thrust a hand through his chest and released every bright and beautiful thing in the universe into his system. He wants her to make him feel invincible forever.

"You," she pants, as he pushes inside her for the first time, and Harry barely hears a word of what she's saying because  _what,_ _what the fuck,_ she's so tight and warm and he's going to come if he goes any faster, but Cassandra isn't interested in foreplay or slow, sensual sex. He thought, stupidly, that she was a rose petals and candles kind of girl, but she's sweeping aside her sister's papers to make room, annoyed that he isn't going  _faster_ , being  _rougher._  

"I can't or I'll...I..."

She raises her eyebrows, so collected even in the heat of sex. "So you're all talk, rich boy. Daddy never bought you Viagra?"

That renews his anger. Harry gives her a cold smile and thrusts so hard that they both gasp, her nails digging into his back. He feels her smile. "Better."

All he can think of is how he wants to watch her lose control, and so he wills himself to concentrate on not finishing in five seconds, stroking her clit with a lazy thumb. Cassandra makes a little sound in the back of her throat and he continues touching her leisurely, letting her arch a little higher, letting her beg for it. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, skin slick with sweat, and she tastes of salt and rosewater. He sends a light breath across the shell of her ears and she keens, her walls gripping him so tightly that he almost loses his bearing. Harry grasps her breasts, pinching her nipples, then reaches up to cup her throat, pinning her to the desk and keeping her face trained on his, eye to eye, mouth to mouth.

"You think you're so goddamn special," he breathes.

"At least I worked for it," she spits, goading him on. "You useless prick."

Harry takes the bait; there's no other word but  _fuck_ for what he does to her, so dirty and rough that a string of mottled bruises decorate her hips, his own throat violently red from her hickeys, his back all torn up, her breasts and lips swollen and her hair tangled in his grip. "Fuck," he says, examining his handiwork, but Cassandra just gives him a  smile and kisses the corner of his mouth.

"That was brutal," she replies after a full two-minutes of kissing, which is a little absurd because he needs oxygen but he needs her more, and she sounds satisfied. He's not sated. He'll never get his fill of her. He lets himself drink in the sight of Cassandra naked, the long, smooth lines of her torso, the perfectly rounded breasts, the cool blue eyes.

"What?" she says, poking his chest before running her hand down his washboard abs.

"You're all right to look at, Pressman," he concedes.

She slumps against him, her hair tickling his skin. Her hair smells different from her skin, more earthy, but still fragrant and sweet and irresistible. "You're not."

"Liar," he says, more gently.

She tips her chin up and says, "Less talking, more fucking."

"Was that a bet? You're not rich enough to be making bets with me, Goodwill."

"You're a bastard," she says, but she doesn't sound like she means it, even a little. Orgasms have that effect; the world tends to go all fuzzy and you start saying things you don't mean or things you mean too much.

Now that all his pent-up rage and aggression has ravaged her body, he feels worn-out, almost content. In a different life, he might have even liked Cassandra. In this one, not even her quiet smile that might be reserved just for him can extinguish that flicker of resentment. Even now it coils inside his stomach. He really does hate her, and he's almost surprised by the realization. Boring, perfect Cassandra who can no wrong, who is good at fucking everything, especially fucking.

They move to the bed, languid and dreamy and slow, and Cassandra's hair falls around Harry like a golden shroud when she leans down to kiss him, and it's sort of ironic considering she's going to be the death of him.

Her tongue tastes like honey, and he cups her face in his hands, pulling her close. Cassandra pulls away to say, "I want to lie down."

Harry straightens up, propping himself on one elbow. She's straddling him, but in one swift movement he flips her over so he's on top. "Better?"

She guides his hand to the warm, slick flesh between her legs, kissing him. He licks and sucks his way down her stomach, the hollow of her pelvis; from this angle he can see her ribs beneath her skin, her breasts swollen and pretty fucking pornographic _,_ her long blond hair fanning across the pillow like one of Botticelli's angels. _How unlucky am I_ , he thinks, _to be alive at the same time as this girl._  

He could work for a thousand years and never be worthy of her, and it's fucking unfair, because humans aren't supposed to be  _worthy_ of anything, they're supposed to be stupid kids who get everything wrong. He looks down at her lips and every fantasy he's ever had about her comes prancing forward. He comes with a shout.

Harry rolls off her and she sighs, a soft, heavy sound that drowns the room. The novel buzz of sex is wearing off; regret is bound to kick in. She gets up, pulling on her underwear and her dress. He wordlessly follows suit.

Cassandra doesn't say anything, but her expression makes it clear.

"See you around," he says blithely, heading for the door.

Cassandra surprises him. He should be used to it by now, but he feels like he'll never get used to this.

To  _her._  

"You're still an entitled asshole," she says. "Be careful who you piss off here, Harry. You can't hire a lawyer this time."

He scoffs. "You're  _threatening_  me."

"No." She tucks her hair behind her ear, a defense mechanism. "I'm just pointing it out."

Harry laughs out of sheer disbelief. "So now you're pretending we didn't have sex."

"We had sex," she says tartly. "Does it have to mean something?"

Harry shakes his head, a bitter smile on his lips. "No. No, Cassandra, it doesn't."

At least he gets the last word.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Quiz: It's been three days since they landed in this new world, and Cassandra has already

a) handed a trump card to her long-time rival

b) let this ascertained rival unbutton her shirt

c) had sex three times with the aforementioned rival on her upstairs landing, little sister's desk, and little sister's bed

d) all of the above

 

Answer: ERROR

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cassandra feels oddly detached as she arranges Allie's room, tossing the papers haphazardly across the desk. She strips the bed of the dirtied sheets and does a load of laundry, tucking the condom wrapper into her bra. Not that Allie would notice. She could always say,  _wow, that's so weird, must be a fluke of the universe._ Sleeping with Harry Bingham is definitely a fluke of the universe.

But she made that choice. She kissed him back. They've been circling each other like magnets, drawing closer and closer until, well,  _bang_.

And now she has the bruises to prove it. She tries to remember whether Harry is still dating Kelly. Probably, considering his morals are nonexistent. She winces as she thinks of all the STDS she might have just contracted. Kelly would have got him tested, though. She's attentive and kind, not the flashy type Harry dated before sophomore year. He and Kelly have always been kind of off-and-on, but he keeps her from slipping down the rungs of the social ladder. In return, she lets him crawl back to her after a couple nights with another girl.

And Cassandra's just become the other girl.

Unfortunately, Harry isn't bad at sex, and he's certainly not compensating for anything. He's gorgeous and infuriating and her body responds to his touch with a searing, electrical intensity that a more romantic person might describe as magic. The self-loathing in his eyes mirrors hers. Sex with him is devastating, earth-shaking,  _blinding._ The kind of heady pleasure that leaves her boneless and pliant, the kind of rough, angry, dirty  _fuck-you-please-fuck-me_ sex that leaves both of them looking rumpled and sore and badly bruised. Harry's eyes are so dark they might be black. His body is lean, toned, his hair all messy and his lips curving in the way that makes her chest thrum with awareness.

She's too aware of him now. Too attuned to his presence, too anxious of what he might do next.

Exactly the way he wants it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cassandra calls a meeting in the church the next morning.

She arrives early, dressed in a long blue skirt and a gray cardigan. Her armor, her second skin. It's not much, but it makes her feel less vulnerable. The less they can see, the better — look too close and they'll know she is just as scared as anyone else and twice as helpless — and this way, no one can guess at any scars or bruises. She used half of Allie's concealer to cover the marks on her neck, but one hug could be fatal. She makes a mental note to tell Allie her chest is starting up again.

Helena is already sitting in the pews, dressed in all black. Her face is gaunt and her eyes ringed with purple, but she's still regal, imperiously beautiful, all high cheekbones and Victorian-era-esque features. Church girl and cheerleader. When she sees Cassandra, she manages to smile wanly. 

"Hello, Cassandra," she greets, voice serene and sultry. A contradiction. Everything about Helena is a contradiction.

 "Hi, Helena," Cassandra says lightly. "How are you holding up?"

Helena tips her head back, long black hair gleaming in the early slivers of sunlight. "Morale is low, but you already know that. Any theories? Personally the Alice in Wonderland one is doing wonders for me."

"I don't think we're dreaming." Cassandra folds her hands in front of her lap, fiddling with her sterling silver ring (a gift from her mother). She can't afford to grieve, but everything seems to remind her of things lost. "It's hard to imagine this isn't happening. It feels real."  _Too real._

"We're all scared, Cassandra," Helena says matter-of-factly. "I know you are. I know I am. But you're doing the right thing."

"I don't think they want to hear it from me." 

"Want is different from need." 

"What if you tell them instead?" Cassandra suggests, only half-joking. Helena has a powerful, enigmatic presence, more commanding than Cassandra and twice as terrifying.

Helena rests a gentle hand on Cassandra's shoulder. "Trust me, friend, you don't want to bequeath power to anyone else. We need stability right now. We need someone who's been standing in front of us for a long time."

Cassandra reaches up to cover Helena's hand in her own, a girl she never knew well, but a girl who believes in her. A girl with faith.

"I don't know how to fix this," she says helplessly. "I don't know what to say or do to make any of this better."

Helena's other hand grips the cross around her neck. She says, "I'll say a prayer for you, Cassandra Pressman."

It's the first time anyone has prayed for her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The others begin to file in, each one more haggard than the last. They sit on the floor or the pews, cross-legged or sprawled out, grumbling as if it's just another early morning assembly. Most are bundled up in layers or coats, streaking dirt across the floor with their boots and sneakers. Cassandra stands in the front, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She recognizes many faces, most of whom look relieved to see her. A couple weary waves, an exhausted smile from the clever boy in her math class (Gordie?), a wink from tall, sweet Grizz. Allie is lingering at the back of the church, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, her curly hair tied back into a ponytail. She looks angry and tired, mock-saluting Cassandra from across the room.

The doors swing open one last time to reveal Harry and his motley crew, swaggering in and kicking their feet up. Harry gives the audience an insolent smile, but his gaze never once flits to Cassandra. Helena slaps her hand down on the podium and the room falls silent.

Cassandra steps forward, clearing her throat. "I'll get to the point. As far as we know, there's no clear way out of this West Ham. In the mean time, we have limited supplies. We don't know when the electricity will run out. We need to ration food and resources until we can figure out what's going on."

A murmur of assent. Then Harry's voice. "Why shouldn't we get to keep what's ours?"

Cassandra sets her shoulders back and looks squarely at him. "What's  _yours,_ Harry? Money? A fancy car? None of that matters now."

He's on his feet in an instant. "And who gave  _you_ fuckingjurisdiction?"

She loses her temper because she has nothing to prove. There's something about him she missed the first hundred times around, but now she feels it shimmering on the tip of her tongue, because he's impossible — violent and sulky and beautiful, and she's dizzy with the weight of the world in her hands. Black on blue on black,  _flashing panting blood bone dust touch,_ the sweet, intangible flick of a wrist and the inevitable  _heads heads heads? or tails..._ symmetry  _a point a line_  a drawback two worlds running parallel to each other,  _hate hate hate you hate is too close, too fiery, too_ bright.

Harry is incredulous, grasping at straws as the coin lands in her palm. Flip, slide, show. Seven tails, one head. He can't argue with random  _fucking_ chance. 

But in the end it is Campbell — cousin, soothsayer, psychopath — who fires the gun and aims it at Cassandra. Reckless, selfless Allie, darting in front with tears in her eyes. Cassandra gently guides her sister back.  _This meeting is over._ Harry turning for the briefest glance, his dark eyes a little too wide, one arm wrapped protectively around Kelly. Other boys trickle out, their fragile egos crushed at the thought of peaceful coexistence.

Harry kissed her yesterday. The Harry of today seems ready to kill her.

He wants her, and he hates himself for wanting her, and he hates her for making him want her. It no longer feels so complicated. It feels toxic and strange and self-destructive, now that she's no longer denying the attraction between them. Now that she's acted on it. It feels achingly intimate. Seeing him in the aftermath — she shouldn't have crossed that line. He was drunk and lonely and angry. She was lonely too, and curious.

It was brilliant, intoxicating. She wouldn't be surprised if she never has sex like that again. If no one ever kisses her the way Harry did. Because he knew it was the last time they'd ever be children. The terms are different, the days of make-believe over. This is real war. This could be fatal.

 _Why is it so important to you?_  she wants to ask.  _Haven't I already let you win once, twice, three times?_

More than anything she wants him to pull her close and hold her in his arms, nose in her hair. How he tastes like mint and wine and religion.

She needs comfort. She never thought she would find it in Harry, and now her chance is gone.

Cassandra ties her hair back and rolls up her sleeves, examining her hands. The skin is smooth and unmarred.

The only part of her body that feels intact anymore.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry looks back at her. It's foolish and indulgent, but he needs that one last glimpse to keep him from shattering.

He looks back at her, and he can't look away.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safe sex is important kids! come follow me on twitter @miiawinter and yo kudos + comments keep this fic alive


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